


Into the Light

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Episode: s03e11 The Sorcerer's Shadow, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-04 11:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12167835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Arthur wakes up to a number of cold, bitter truths. Orphaned, injured, and imprisoned in Camelot's deepest dungeons with the sorcerer that he once called his friend, how can Arthur win back the throne from the treacherous Morgana?





	Into the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Episode AU for episode 03.11: The Sorcerer's Shadow. Written for the amazing [Canon Fest on LJ](https://merlin-canon.livejournal.com/). 
> 
> With enormous thanks to Cakes for cheerleading, and Tibeyg for the beta and for flailing with me about emotionally constipated boys and their total inability to articulate their feelings. THANK YOU SO MUCH! I COULD NOT HAVE DONE THIS WITHOUT YOU! And of course to the incredible Kitty_Fic and Emrys_MK for modding this fantastic fest. 
> 
> Not my characters, I'm not getting paid.
> 
> This fills the "Imprisonment" square on my hurt/comfort bingo card

 

It is dark.

Time passes.

Arthur blinks into the mirk. But it does nothing to lift the darkness, nor the stench. Nor does it soothe the sharp pain behind his eyes.

He’s lying upon some dank, hard surface. When he lifts one hand to touch a tender spot at the edge of his temple, the movement sends a clanking sound round what sounds like a small chamber. His hands must be chained together, he deduces. Where is he? If only his head did not hurt so much. He can’t think.

“Arthur.” The voice is a hoarse whisper, thin and frail through the gloom. “Are you awake?”

He groans in reply, pushing his tongue out in a vain attempt to moisten his chapped lips. Tasting bile and blood.

“Arthur?”

He wishes the voice would go away. There’s something important that he has to remember, but he can’t. It hurts. It hurts too much. He shifts onto his side in search of relief but agony stabs through his ribs and he gasps out loud.

“Arthur? Are you hurt?”

The voice is familiar but he can’t quite place it, he knows only that it is not a threat. Or is it? A thrill of fear pricks at his nape. If only he could remember…

“They will pay if they have hurt you, Arthur.” There's a faint rustling on the other side of the chamber where he is lying, and a sharp intake of breath, as if the voice's owner feels a sudden jolt of pain. Something scrapes - cold metal upon stone.

“I’ll get you out of here, Arthur, I swear.” A mirthless chuckle. “Just as soon as I can get rid of these shackles.”

Arthur blinks into the darkness, cataloging his wounds with his fingers, as he’s been taught. A dent in his head. The soreness in his side is probably a cracked rib. He’s as weak as a baby, but his limbs are intact. But he can't touch the places where sharp pains sear his back and sides, not with his hands shackled together.

“I’m sorry about your father, Arthur, but I swear it was not me that killed him. Yes, I... I have... I have, um.” There’s real fear in the voice. “Magic. I was born with it! It's true. But I use it only for the good of Camelot, Arthur. For you! Arthur?  I tried to stop Gilli, you see. I was trying to save your Father, I swear! For you, Arthur. That’s what my magic is for… Basically it’s yours, Arthur. Just as I was born to serve you, so was my magic.”

A sorcerer. A sorcerer is in here with him? Arthur stays silent, desperately trying to pull together his scattered thoughts. Who is this overfamiliar sorcerer that uses his first name without thought? He should know. Bewildered, he lies still upon the bare, cold stone.

“Arthur?” Still, the sorcerer rumbles on. “Are you all right? Gods, I swear I tried to stop him. Gods, if only I had been faster! It was not me that killed him, Arthur, you must believe me. You are everything to me… I would never do that to you.”

Arthur feels some sensation returning to his fingers and toes as he massages them, pondering the truth behind the sorcerer's pathetic half-lies and desperate maundering.

“What do you mean?” Arthur croaks. His own voice sounds strange. His tongue feels too thick, and his throat pained. He clears his throat, and lets out a bitter laugh to disguise the cold tickle of fear that lingers in his gut.

“You are awake! Thank all the go—” 

“What do you mean?” interrupted Arthur, more loudly. “What do you mean that it was not you that killed him? Who is dead?”

“The King,” whispers the sorcerer. “The King is dead, and Morgana has taken the throne. I’m so sorry, Arthur. I tried to stop Gilli, but he was too fast. And then, when he denounced me, Morgana put the cold iron on me... I should have stopped her, I was too slow. I’m so sorry. It was the only thing I had to do, and I failed.”

His father? The King is dead?

“Arthur?”

“You may not address your king like that,” he rasps. His throat is so tender, as if from shouting. He has been shouting! That’s it, he was fighting Morgana’s henchmen but there were too many, even for him. And his heart had not been in it because Merlin…

Merlin… His chest starts to heave. His throat closes.

Footsteps echo in the distance, tap-tapping on stone, closing on him. A faint glow flickers on stained walls. Thick iron bars cast shadows onto a murky floor. Nameless things scuttle to the corners, fleeing the light.

“They’re coming for me,” whispers the voice, fear making it crack and tremble. A sharp intake of breath, almost like a sob. Arthur tries to extend a hand, to offer comfort, he does not know why. He hisses as pain floods through his ribs, down his arm and across his back in burning, criss-crossing lines.

The door clangs open. There’s a sudden burst of cruel laughter.

“Well will you look here! The prince is awake!” The jailer spits and lashes out with a boot. Arthur cries out as it makes contact with his tender ribs. The air whooshes from his lungs and his muscles clench, cramping in agony.

“Leave him alone!” protests his co-captive, a dark hunched shape in the corner.

“Merlin,” whispers Arthur. Flashes of memory spike through him. “You’re a…”  

“Shut up, princeling,” jeers the jailer. “You’ll have your turn. I’ve got other fish to fry.” He swings the lit torch at the huddle of rags that cringes in a corner of the cell. “Where is it, sorcerer?”

Merlin’s arms come up to protect his face, making heavy chains jangle, but he screams as the fire makes contact, a high, deathly sound that makes Arthur’s throat clench in mixed fear and fury.

The memories are flooding back now, making his chest constrict and his head throb. Sudden grief clenches at his heart. His father! Dead on the cold earth, the dry dust sucking away his blood, and with it his life force. His unlikely assailant, Gilli, the winner of the tourney, standing over him in triumph, eyes flashing golden.

And afterwards, the bitter barbs of betrayal as Morgana slays the triumphant sorcerer and takes the throne for herself.

But the betrayal that cuts the deepest, the one that has him scrabbling on the floor now for purchase, trying to stand, desperate to seek the answers he craves... That belongs to....

“Merlin! No,” he cries, raising his head. He fights the giddiness. Forcing himself up onto his elbows, he trembles from the effort. Too weak, too weak! “No!”

He is not sure what he’s denying; Merlin’s evident complicity in the magical conspiracy to kill his father, Merlin’s pain, the cold iron that holds Merlin’s sorcery in check. There are no friends here, not any more. Only enemies and sorcery. Thick bile rises in his gorge. He heaves.

“Where is it, you little shit?” The jailer’s companion thrusts the torch against the sorcerer’s side. “Tell us now and we’ll be nice. “

Merlin cries out again, a sharp, high-pitched sound.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gasps.

“You know, you tricksy little bastard.” A jarring sound makes Arthur wince. Merlin’s breath comes in pained gasps. “The sword. The sword of the succession. Where is it? There’s an easy way and a hard way to do this. Tell us now.”

Merlin somehow manages to force out a low, bitter laugh.

“It’ll be no good to you, even if you find it.” He spits out the words, defiant as only Merlin can be. Arthur both hates and admires him for his bravery. “Only the true ruler of this land can lift it.”

“All right, the hard way it is.” The two guards bend over the ragged shape in the corner. There’s a sudden, pained whimper and a metallic click.

With a tremendous effort, Arthur pushes himself to his knees. His head spins and he topples, senseless.

When he wakes, the cell is empty and the light is gone. There is a distant scream, as if of someone in mortal agony. Somehow he knows that it’s Merlin. Merlin deserves this, he has brought this on them all with his sorcery and his betrayal. 

Merlin is his friend. Merlin betrayed him. Merlin is hurt.

Arthur lies upon the bare stone, hugging his knees against the cold. Despair washes over him in heavy, drugging waves as he recalls the terror of the tournament. The moment when the sorcerer, Gilli, murdered the king and stood, triumphant over his bleeding corpse, eyes flashing. Yelling, Arthur had turned to Merlin for guidance, always to Merlin... but Merlin’s own eyes glowed, bright with the aftermath of sorcery, his hand out, fingers splayed as he yelled...

It is dark, here in the dungeon, too dark to see, but that terrible sight is still burned onto his retina.

Merlin. Merlin, a sorcerer and a traitor.

Uther’s murderer Gilli, when questioned afterwards, accused Merlin of directing him with his sorcery. Arthur had felt a brief pang of grim satisfaction when Morgana had slain the cur. But then she had turned on Arthur.  

It must have been a conspiracy. 

And now Morgana’s guards are torturing Merlin, desperate for information about something or another. Arthur should be happy. Should not feel anything at all for the manservant who coldly infiltrated his service and then systematically dismantled all that Arthur has held dear. But still the screams make Arthur’s bones shudder.

Time passes. It is so dark. And the sorry bundle of rags that is returned and hurled roughly into the corner of the cell has stopped even shivering. Is Merlin alive, any more?

Arthur is not sure what he wants the answer to be.

Hunger pierces the numbness and the pain.

Time passes.

It is dark.

******

This time, the footsteps are more of a slow, cautious shuffle, and the dungeon door remains stubbornly closed. A faint gleam lights up the stone ceiling. Bars cast black shadows.

“Arthur? Merlin?” Gaius’s familiar voice is welcome for a second or two - at least until Arthur remembers. He must have known about Merlin all along. Was all of Camelot laughing at him?

“Go away, Gaius,” Arthur hisses. “Let me rot away in peace.”

“I have brought food, Sire, such as I could smuggle away from the kitchen without Morgana’s knowledge.

“I said leave me!”

“I understand that you are upset, sire. But you must keep your strength up if we are to get you out of here.”

Out of here? Arthur snorts. But his stomach growls and clenches. He can't remember the last time he ate. 

“Here, sire, I beg you.” Gaius proffers something through the bars. “Take it! But quickly, now. I must go.”

“Did  _she_  put you up to this?” Arthur crawls to the bars, and levers himself with difficulty onto his knees and then his feet. Hating himself for his weakness and the hunger that gnaws at him, he lifts his shackled hands and grabs at the loaf that Gaius has thrust through. His hands shake. Bending, he places it carefully upon the bottom of his shirt, and ties the cloth around it, to keep it as free of filth as he can.

“Morgana would have me killed if she knew I was here. Do not judge Merlin too harshly, Arthur.” Gaius passes a waterskin. “He cares about you a great deal, and was only doing what he felt was right.”

“And what about you?” Arthur frowns. Gaius and Merlin are like father and son. Gaius has to be party to Merlin’s treachery. But then why is he here? “Did you know of his perfidy?”

“Perfidy?” Gaius looks grave. “I swear upon my life, Sire, that everything Merlin does, that he has done, is for the good of this Kingdom and for you.”

“He is in league with Morgana! Why has she jailed him? Why are you here?” cries Arthur.

“His loyalty lies with you, Arthur, and she knows that. Morgana may have defeated him this time, but as long as he lives there is hope, Arthur.

Arthur wants to believe Gaius, wants to believe that he can break free and restore his kingdom. But how can he, with Merlin lying shackled and broken upon the dungeon floor?

“Is he… is he all right?” There's a faint quaver in Gaius's voice. 

Swallowing thickly, Arthur turning his head to glance at the sorry heap upon the ground. Merlin has not moved since he returned from the torture chamber. And Arthur should not care, should hate the traitor. Magic is evil, magic corrupts, he knows that - look at what has become of Morgana! But a deep, nagging part of him refuses to believe that Merlin could betray him, could be evil. Merlin has saved his life, and offered his own as sacrifice, over and over again.

“He’s… sleeping,” he says at last, the half-lie sour on his lips. If Merlin were awake, he would surely lift his head at Gaius’s voice, do something to acknowledge his mentor.

“Is he hurt?” Gaius’s eyebrow lifts enough to express his disbelief, and his face presses up against the bars, as if trying to see into the cell. Arthur blocks his view. He wants to lash out at Gaius for keeping secrets from him, but he needs answers, more than anything else.

“I…” Arthur moistens his lips with water from the skin to hide the tremor in his voice. “I… I think so. He is unconscious. You must know, Gaius… Gemmel is not a very effective torturer. He lets his brutality take over…”

“Oh, my boy.” Gaius’s hand whispers through the bars to grip Arthur’s. “I wish…”

“Who is he?” Arthur whispers, jerking his hand away, gulping down his anger. “Why did he come here?”

“He is Emrys,” says Gaius, in a bare whisper that can scarcely be heard above the heavy pounding of Arthur’s heart. “There are some that say he is the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk upon this earth. And he is destined to be by your side through your reign. His power is like none other. Be careful, Arthur. Careful that you do not squander it.”

 _Emrys?_ Arthur is silent for a moment while he digests this information.

“If he’s so powerful, how come he is still locked up in here with me?” he says. “Why doesn’t he…”

“The iron bands upon his wrists lock him away from the magic that fills the land,” says Gaius gravely. “He is essentially cut off from it. But Merlin is Emrys. There is magic in his veins. The magic within him, that can never be locked away. Maybe, with time, he could overcome the bands. But time is one thing that you do not have, Arthur. Morgana is searching for the sword of succession. Who knows what she will do with it? You must find it before her.”  

“How can I do that?” says Arthur, crashing his hands against the bars until they shake. “How can I be free?”

“I'm not sure, but I do know that you must,” says Gaius. “I wonder if this might help?” Gaius lifted something then, something that glinted oddly in the bare light from his torch. “Sensing trouble, Merlin entrusted it to me before the tournament.”

“What is it?” Wondering, Arthur followed the light with his eyes.

“It is a vial of holy water from the lake at Avalon. It is a precious gift. “

But then there is a far off shout, and Gaius’s head swivels to follow it.

“I must go. If they find me here, then all is lost.” Gaius darts forward again. “Take it. Here!” He presses the vial through the bars at Arthur, who lifts trembling hands to grab it, almost dropping it. “Merlin will know what to do with it. Keep him safe! When he wakes, tell him… I think the time has come. “

******

Time passes.

It is dark.

_Keep him safe._

Arthur turns the vial over and over in his hands. He cannot see it; only feel the cool smoothness of the glass, the grain of the wood. He wonders what this object might be, and where it came from. How can it help them now?

_As long as he lives there is hope._

There’s a tiny sound from the corner. It’s more a whimper than a groan.

Abruptly, Arthur decides. He will focus on keeping Merlin alive for now. The reckoning can come later, when they are out of this hell-hole.

Straining against the shackles that bind him and ignoring the pain that shoots through him when he moves, Arthur crawls over to where Merlin’s still form lies, and cautiously extends his hands. Merlin is hot beneath his touch, feverish. And when Arthur’s fingertips graze his forehead, his eyes fly open, glowing gold-black-blue.

“Arthur,” he croaks.

“You’re burning up.” Arthur presses the waterskin to where Merlin’s lips must be. “Drink.”

Merlin gulps greedily, then chokes. Violent coughs shake his body.

“Not so much!” Arthur jerks away the waterskin. “Don’t waste it.”

“I’m sorry…” Merlin whispers, a moment later.  

“Time for that later.” Arthur pulls out some bread. His hands fumble, cold. He tries to moisten it the bread, and drops it. “Fuck.” He scrabbles around for the morsel of food, thanking the gods when he finds it upon his knee, and pushes it up towards Merlin’s mouth. “Eat.”

“Arthur.”

“I said eat, idiot!” hisses Arthur. “I need you to get us out of here. Magic or no magic, neither of us are any good to Albion down here.”

Merlin actually laughs, a quiet sound that’s closer to a sob. But he eats the bread, his lips and tongue dry and scratchy against Arthur’s fingers.

“Can you use it?” Arthur says, holding the waterskin up again. His shackled wrists ache and the angle is awkward, but he wills himself to do it.

“What do you mean?”

“For fuck’s sake, Merlin, your magic, what do you think I mean? If you will choose to consort with the devil, you might as well make yourself useful...”

“Consort with the devil…” This time Merlin’s laugh turns into a hacking cough.

It is ominous. Arthur has heard coughs like that before... The fear that steals through his veins now is colder than the hard stone floor.

“Merlin!” he says through gritted teeth, dread making his voice harsher than he means it to be. “I swear if you die on me now I will kill you myself! Can you use your magic?”

“I didn’t choose it,” says Merlin. “I was born with it. It chose  _me_.”

A soft glow fills the chamber. A pale blue orb hovers in the air above Merlin’s face, and his eyes glow like the sun. The light is so beautiful that it pierces Arthur’s very soul.

Relief radiates through Arthur then, making his shoulders tremble. Merlin’s eyes meet his, and there is joy there amid the pain.

“I can use it!” he whispers. “It hurts. But I can use it!”

“In that case, free yourself,” Arthur says, roughly.  _Born with it,_ Merlin said that before.  _Born with it!_  What the hell does that even mean? “Free us both. Get us far away from here, and then we’ll see what hurts.”

Once again, Merlin’s eyes flash as he incants. The light hurts Arthur’s eyes, but it’s nothing compared to the grief that slams into him when he hears Merlin scream. It’s a terrible effort. Arthur can feel Merlin shivering through the thin rags that cling to his body.

“It hurts,” he croaks. His body slackens and his eyes fade to a wan yellow. “I can’t…”

“Why…” Frustrated, Arthur gestures towards the still-glowing orb, which reminds him of something, he can’t think what, but it feels warm and friendly, not terrifying and brutal as sorcery normally does. “How come you can still do that?”.

“The light comes from within,” croaks Merlin. “It’s a part of me, like… like an emotion, it’s like l— I just have to think of y— someone I lo— care about. But the iron cuts me off from the magic outside me. I can’t… It’s as if it is eating me. I…” He shudders, tremors wracking his thin frame.

“Wait! Gaius gave me something for you. He told me to tell you that it is time.” Arthur releases Merlin for a moment and rummages inside his jerkin, retrieving the vial with shaky hands . “Here!”

Merlin’s eyes are black in the gloom but they glitter as Merlin reaches for the vial. He’s not sure what happens, then, but the next thing he knows, it lies, shattered, upon the floor.

“No!” whispers Merlin. He scrabbles around, but the water is pooling on the floor. “No!”

Arthur swallows and sinks back down onto the filthy floor, despair choking him as surely as any garrote. With Merlin cut off from his magic, and the vial broken, it seems that their only hope of freedom is gone. He closes his eyes against the pale unblinking, light. But the light is growing, brighter and warmer against his eyelids. Curious, he flicks his eyes open again.

“Merlin?” He peers at the puddle, which has started to glow. “What’s happening?”

Deep within the water, as if in a cave, he sees the ghostly face of a woman. He glances up, but sees nothing that can be reflected. It’s as if the woman is within the water. She is calling! Her voice is faint, but he hears her.

“Merlin?” she is saying. “Merlin, my love! Can you hear me?”

“Freya?” With a sudden burst of energy, Merlin crawls over towards the puddle, his face split by an incredulous grin that seems out of place. “Freya! It is you!”

“Hush, Merlin, I don’t have much time!” She smiles back at him - a small, private smile. “It’s so wonderful to see you!”

Arthur draws back. He feels like he’s intruding, somehow.

“You too! Oh, Freya! What should we do? We’re trapped and I can’t…” Merlin strains at his chains as if he yearns to touch.

“You must escape, Merlin! Release yourself and call the dragon. Arthur must lift the sword of the succession! Morgana hopes to raise an immortal army, to cement her claim upon the throne. Only Excalibur can defeat it!”

“But I can’t…”

“Of course you can.” Her face is sorrowful. “You were never mine, I know it now. You are his to command.” 

Arthur hardly listens to the rest of the conversation. Ghostly women and immortal armies are beyond his ken. But a sword? A sword he can understand. Give him a sword in his hand and trusted men at his back, and he can conquer the world!

By the time the ethereal image fades, he is on his feet, bashing his chains impotently against the bars of the cell.

“Let us out of here, you cowards,” he yells into the mirk.

There is a far away sound of laughter.

‘Come on, Merlin!” He swivels and crouches down, touching his chained hands to the back of Merlin’s neck.  _His to command._ A fierce sense of pride and possession takes him.  _His!_

“I can’t, prat!” Merlin’s face is a mask of misery. “I have tried, it doesn’t work, I cannot fight the iron! It drains my life force, I cannot—”

“I don’t care.” Taking a deep breath, Arthur draws upon every moment of training to imbue his voice with authority. “Didn’t you say that your magic is mine? In that case, I command you to use your magic to free yourself, and me.”

Merlin's mouth drops open in shock. But then, suddenly, Merlin’s eyes are glowing, gold, so bright, it dazzles…

The screaming, the terrible screaming starts again. But this time, it stops abruptly. There is a faintly audible click, and the smell of burning metal. Something heavy clanks to the floor. Arthur’s arms and legs feel suddenly light, and mercifully free of chafing. Merlin’s face glows an unearthly shade, the light intensifying until Arthur has to look away. The door springs open.

They’re free!

Overjoyed, Arthur turns back to Merlin. But Merlin totters and crumbles, just crumbles, legs crumpling beneath him as if they were made of splinters. His golden eyes fade to yellow and blink out, until there’s only the steady light of the orb left in the cell, still hovering over them like a sentinel.

“Merlin!” Arthur doesn’t have time to think. In a swift move, he casts aside his broken chains. He kicks them, clanking, to the corner of the room. He bends to retrieve the fallen.

“Leave me,” croaks Merlin. There’s something odd going on under his skin, faint golden lines enmesh his face like the traces of veins. His breath comes in great gasps. “Save yourself. My magic - been... confined... too... long... can't... control it...”

“Don’t be such an idiot, Merlin.” Arthur shoves one hand round Merlin’s back. He slides it beneath Merlin's armpit. “You’re hurt. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“My magic... It's healing me... I'm getting... better... just need... time...”

“Then let me give you time.”

Merlin is light, but in Arthur’s weakened state, he won’t get far with him. Staggering under his weight, he slings Merlin’s hand across his shoulders, ignoring the fire that this movement ignites in his back. He pushes the cell door open with his knee. The effort makes him breathe hard. The werelight bobs in his wake as he steals into the passageway. Caution makes him peep out. He is alone, save for Merlin.

Far away, a scream pierces the air. He tenses, waiting, but there is no other sound. Slowly, painfully, he inches along, Merlin’s head lolling on his shoulder. All sense of time is lost. There is just the sound of his harsh breathing, the tension in his shoulders, the pain in his back. 

Silently, he wills himself to carry on.

A sudden noise startles him. He nearly releases Merlin, grabs him as he starts to slip.

“It's just a rat,” says Merlin. Is it Arthur's imagination, or is his voice already sounding stronger? The golden veining upon his neck is beginning to dim.

For the first time, Arthur allows hope to make his heart leap in his chest. Only to be dashed when he turns a corner. Because guards are there - ruffians that he does not recognise. Morgana's henchmen, no doubt. Their dice clack on an the upturned barrel. They don’t notice the werelight; their torches mask its faint aura. 

Arthur stumbles. His strength is fading fast. He can't make it. He can't. Despair clutches at his chest. So near!

But then he remembers. He has a sorcerer at his command.

“Merlin,” he hisses. “Merlin get us out of here.”

Abruptly, Merlin’s eyes flip open. They’re glowing a molten gold. With a lazy smile, he flicks his fingers towards the guards.

They fall senseless to the floor.

“By all the gods!” Shocked, Arthur gawps at the unconscious men. ”Just how powerful are you?” 

“Powerful enough.” Merlin is shuddering now, his skin covered with a faint film of sweat that reflects the light from the torches, and his eyes burn, how they burn!  ”To serve the greatest king this land has ever known...”

“You’ve been breaking all Camelot’s laws, Merlin.” Distantly he imagines his father’s condemnation, imagines Merlin upon a pyre, his eyes dulling, skin blistering. He blinks away the image. 

“I think you'll find” says Merlin, a half-smile quirking at his lips. “That I've only broken some of them.”

“Semantics.” Arthur huffs out a surprised laugh. Despite all that has happened, this ease between them is still there. It still has the power to warm him. ”Don’t think you’re going to get out of this with flattery.” His voice sounds oddly weak to his own ears. The muscles in his arms burn. His legs are trembling with fatigue. 

“You’re the king.” Merlin fixes fierce eyes limned with fire upon Arthur’s. “Laws can be changed.”

“Maybe.” Arthur's legs finally buckle, and he falls to his knees. “Merlin, I can't...”

“Don't worry, Arthur. I have it under control now. And I'm going to get you out of here.”

He lifts a hand, and incants in a strange language.

The light winks out, and suddenly Arthur is falling. He screams into the void, but hears no sound.

Abruptly, Arthur lands. The ground is soft, but cold. Heavy wingbeats sound overhead. The stars are arrayed across the sky in a glowing bow. Blinking into the gloom, he should be surprised when he sees the scaly head of the dragon dip towards his, when he’s addressed by name. But he has lost all ability to feel surprise.

He tries to rise, but nothing works any more. His limbs are too heavy. There is a painful lattice of lashmarks, traced in fire across his back. It burns. Groaning, he topples forward. Dew-covered grass moistens his rough lips. He licks them, tasting metal, and blood.

“Take us to Avalon,” Merlin tells the dragon. “The King is hurt.”

Merlin is ordering a dragon around, now? All Arthur has time to do is file this information away. He’s lifted. And after that, there is only the cold wind and Merlin’s beating heart, warm against Arthur’s cheek.

******

It is dark.

Time passes.

“Merlin?”

No-one answers. It’s dark. And cold. So cold, although there is a fire. Arthur shivers. He’s alone. He’s going to die here, alone. He groans. Time passes. He can’t feel his fingers. He tries to shift closer to the fire, but his arms and legs are too heavy.

Faint footsteps clump softly nearer.

“Arthur!” says Merlin. “Are you awake? Are you all right? Gods, Arthur. I’m so sorry. I had to go, and— You’re hands are freezing. But you’re burning up. Arthur?”

A caress gentles his hair.

“Cold.” Moaning, Arthur turns towards it, seeking more heat.  

“Bugger. I forgot.” Merlin mutters something in an odd language that Arthur doesn’t recognise, and warmth envelops him.

Careful hands on his side and arms prop him up. He can smell food. His stomach growls.

“Where are we?” Arthur curses the weakness of his voice, the fever that burns him. He can’t remember much about the last few hours.

“Somewhere safe.” Merlin presses something to Arthur’s mouth; a thin soup, laced with something potent. It trickles down his throat, warm and comforting. “The dragon has brought us to a cave by the lake at Avalon. It is protected. No-one will find you here. I can treat your wounds and we can work out how we are going to defeat Morgana.”

“There was a dragon?” Arthur frowns, trying to remember. “What did you do? Who are you?” He needs some answers. When he’s better, when this is all over and he’s on the throne where he belongs, there will be a proper reckoning. But for now, he will content himself with the most pressing questions.

“I’m your servant, the same as always.”

Something touches Arthur’s back, and he hisses.

“You’re hurt. Let me see.”

“I’m fine!” Letting Merlin strip off his jerkin would be the ultimate humiliation.

“You’re not fine, Arthur.” Never one to let Arthur’s wishes deter him from what he wants to do, Merlin gently lifts away the leather, ignoring Arthur’s protests, until the gusts of Merlin’s breath upon his back make him wince. “May the Gods have mercy.”

“What is it?” Arthur half knows what the answer is going to be, although his memory is hazy.

“Those bastards had you flogged.” Merlin’s finger traces a line along his shoulder towards his arm. “And none too gently either. By all the gods, I’ll make them pay for that.”

Although his eyes are still closed, Arthur can imagine the sour, mutinous set of Merlin’s mouth as he considers their fate. He frowns. When did he get to know the tiny subtleties of Merlin’s facial expressions?

“The wounds are not clean, either,” Merlin carries on. “Let me treat them. Please, Arthur! I can help.”

“What can a barely competent physician’s apprentice like you do against wounds such as these?” huffs Arthur, opening his eyes.

He blinks. They’re in some sort of a cave; Merlin’s ever-present werelight hovers above their heads, its glow reflected in the damp crevices of the cavernous ceiling. A low fire reduced to embers. Around him is a shimmering haze, like gossamer. The source of the heat, no doubt. But despite the warmth, Arthur is still shivering—and this time, it’s not from the cold. The painful lines upon his back burn like fire. He’s seen injuries like these before, suppurating until they blacken and swell, and the miscreant dies, shrieking.

It is an ignoble death - long, and painful.

“Even Gaius can’t…” Arthur stops speaking abruptly, not wanting to consider how Gaius might be faring at this moment.

“I have magic.” Merlin’s blunt statement merely serves to magnify Arthur's shaking. “I can bring you relief. Will you let me?”

“What choice do I have?” Arthur knows where his wounds will take him, if he refuses. He shifts his weight, and agony shoots through his torso and up into his head.

“Very little. I give you a week, ten days at the most, if you do not accept my offer.”

“Why don’t you just leave me to it, sorcerer?” He turns towards Merlin, bitterness tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Isn’t that what you want? One of your kind on the throne?”

“Morgana would be a terrible queen.” Merlin frowns, shaking his head. “Revenge and spite motivate her. She is raising an immortal army, and threatens to destroy all that we have built. She would rule with terror and fear. Whereas you… you will rule with justice and peace. I have seen it. Seen it in the way that you deal with your people. Let me heal you, Arthur. For Camelot. Give the people the king that they deserve.”

“All this time, Merlin. All this time I had you pegged as a bumbling incompetent.” The truth was like scales falling from Arthur’s eyes. “Whereas in reality you’re a devious, manipulative bastard.”

Because Merlin knew—of course he knew—exactly which levers to pull to make Arthur respond the way he wanted. Merlin would know that Arthur would not use magic for his own ends. But on behalf of his people?

“All part of my charm.” Merlin’s hand is against Arthur’s cheek, his thumb drawing gentle circles upon Arthur’s forehead. His forehead knots with concern. “Please Arthur. Not for me, but for Camelot.”

Damn him. Damn him for his mercy, and his kindness, and his gentle, long fingers. Damn him to hell—above all, for being right.

“I accept.” Arthur sighs. “For Camelot.”

Merlin huffs out a laugh, then, and his eyes dance. It’s a mischievous expression, designed to put Arthur at ease, but it does not disguise the relief that is there.

“Why are you doing this?” Of all the questions that clatter around in Arthur’s mind, this is the most pressing. “Why do you serve me? You have such power, and yet you choose to hide…”

“Is it not obvious?” Merlin shakes his head as he whispers. “You… you are everything to me.”

He mutters something in that odd language again, and the words are like a cool summer breeze that caresses Arthur’s back, soothing the stinging pain.

“Oh.” Arthur closes his eyes. The relief from pain is instantaneous. His shoulders relax into a  soft embrace. “Gods. That’s… How do you… Can you…?” His mind jumps to the possibilities for treating the injured in the aftermath of battle.

“It won’t work for everyone, Arthur,” says Merlin, reading his mind, a faint smile tugging his lips upwards. “My magic likes you for some reason. I can’t think why. Maybe it’s got a thing for arrogant prats.”

Arthur snorts. The euphoria at the lack of pain must be making him feel light-headed, because he suddenly just wants to laugh. But he can’t. He needs answers. And he needs to plan. But first, he needs to know who is on his side.

He wills his face into a mask and stares at Merlin, who is sitting, fiddling nervously with a stick.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s eyes are dark, like the pitch black outside the cave. His face falls under Arthur’s scrutiny, mouth twisting into a worried pout, and his breath hitches.

“Why did you kill my father?” Arthur forces out the words, remembering the moment when the tournament ended so abruptly, with the sorcerer, Gilli’s sword thrust triumphantly through his father’s neck. He closes his eyes, then wills them open again. 

“What?” Merlin's mouth is round with shock. “I didn't kill him!” 

“You were part of the conspiracy, Merlin, the sorcerer accused you...”

“No!” Merlin shakes his head vehemently. ”I had nothing to do with that, I swear. I didn’t. That was all Gilli! I begged him to pull out of the tournament, but he could not resist the adulation of the crowd— it was that which turned him, I think. Thank all the gods that you threw your competition with the king, Arthur, or Gilli might have killed you. The very thought makes me feel hot and cold all over. But, gods, I’m such an idiot. You have lost your father. And I’m so sorry for your loss, Arthur. Believe me, I did everything that I could to stop him, but he was just so qu—”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Merlin could prattle on like this for hours.

“You have been lying to me for years,” he interrupts. “In ways too numerous to count. How can I believe you about this?” The strength is returning to Arthur’s limbs, and his voice, and with it all his bitterness about Merlin’s perfidy.

Merlin blinks, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

“I suppose you’re going to cry like a girl about it!” Arthur stands, turning away to face the cold walls of the cavern. “You never could hide your emotions, Merlin. Or is that a lie too?” He clamps his mouth shut, presses his lips together to tamp down the pain.

“Arthur, I—”

“You may not address me like that,” snaps Arthur, whirling around. “I am your  _King_.”

He roars this out, flooded with a welcome, white hot anger - or is it glacially cold? He cannot tell the difference any more. It doesn’t matter. He rolls his shoulders and neck, flexes his fingers.

“Sire!” Merlin chokes, as he falls to his knees, trembling, head bowed. “You have always been, and will always be my King. That much has not changed.”

“Of course it has changed!” cries Arthur. He paces around the cave, measuring it out with his feet. “Everything has changed! Don’t you see?”

Merlin just wrings his hands together, over and over, shoulders shaking, breath escaping in great huffs as if he is sobbing. Arthur wants to yell at him to stop. Instead, he bends to put his hand upon Merlin’s wretched neck, wrenching him to his feet. Merlin’s shocked eyes stare back at his, dark pools of black surrounded by a thin rim of ocean blue.

He's an Idiot. But a loyal one. Arthur is sure of it. Arthur’s anger deserts him, and a wry half-smile flits across his face instead. He pats Merlin on the shoulder.

Wrongfooted by Arthur's sudden change of mood, Merlin gawps. 

“You mentioned,” Arthur purrs. “A weapon. A sword?”

“Ah, yes.” Merlin swallows and cocks his head on one side. His tongue snakes out, appraisingly. “You might remember it, actually. Well, it’s a… a very nice sword. A good sword. The very best, you might say, actually! Um. They say only the true ruler of all Albion can lift it.”

“And. Who,” says Arthur, enunciating each word as patiently as he can. “Might.  _They._ Be.”

“Um.” Merlin shrugs and lifts and eyebrow. The ghost of a smile flits across his lips. “Me?”

“You.” Arthur tries to fill his voice with disdain but it comes out sounding like affection.

“Um. Yeah - as it happens. I, er, might have started a rumour about it.” Merlin's smile broadens. “I, um. Well, you see, swords and brutality are one way of winning a kingdom. And, by all accounts, raising an undead army might be another. But sometimes you need to be a bit more… um… shall we say sneaky? Yes, I think that might be the word. Sneaky it is.”

“Sneaky.” A sudden inexplicable joy and lightness spreads through Arthur’s limbs. How can he ever have thought Merlin was stupid? Deep down, he knew though. Knew in his bones that Merlin was a source of curious wisdom, coupled with an unshakeable faith in Arthur’s abilities. That had not changed. “I’m so grateful for your sneaking on my behalf. Your future position as the royal sneaker-in-chief is assured. And what, pray, might this sneakiness have achieved?”

“Well, it’s kind of funny.” Merlin lets out a sly chuckle. “I think the people wanted to believe it. It’s almost as if they were waiting for it, you know? Because they love you, Arthur. You’re not some remote figurehead, beautiful and deadly, like Morgana. You’re one of  _them_. You talk to them and smile with them and brawl with them and drink with them… and you listen to their petitions, help them when they are sick, and protect them from deadly threats... And anyway, the Lady in the Lake told me that it was time. So, I got the sword from her. Um. That's where I went, while you were here. You know.”

“Unconscious,” supplied Arthur, wondering where this was going. “Dying.”

“I was going to say asleep.” Merlin winces. “I might have had to nudge you a bit. Sorry about that.”  

“Nudge me?” Aghast, Arthur grips Merlin’s shoulders and shakes him. “I couldn’t feel my fingers! I might have lost them! I nearly died, you presumptuous, insolent bumpki—”

“You’re exaggerating!” protests Merlin, his voice rising as if Arthur had complained about something mundane like a cold bath or rats in his room. “It was only a little nudge! Anyway, I shoved the sword in the stone and there’s an inscription and everything. I expect they’re all looking at it now, because I might have drawn attention to it a little bit.”

“A little bit?”

“Well, dragons are quite noticeable.” Merlin shrugs, as if he’d just said that water is quite wet.

“Dragons?” says Arthur faintly. “Quite noticeable?”

“Yeah.” Merlin gulps. “Um. Well,  _a dragon_ , anyway. Singular. It’s all right though, don’t worry, they didn’t know it was me. I disguised myself as Dra— as an ol— in disguise.”

“I can see that I am going to have to put you in the stocks for a considerable period of time and interrogate you with rotten vegetables. Enough.” He’s hiding something, Arthur knows it, but he is chasing down something else at the moment, and will have to come back to this. “You were saying,” he growls, “about the sword.”

“Right. So I was.” Merlin clears his throat and looks away. “Aha, yes. Anyway, the inscription says that  _whomsoever lifteth this sword is the rightful born king of all Albion_.”

“All Albion?” Arthur chokes out.

“Why, yes, did I make a mistake? I mean, Cenred’s already thick with Morgana and has as good as declared war on Camelot anyway, so I guessed that  we might as well go for broke. And there’s nothing wrong with a bit of ambition…”

“Ambition?” Arthur repeats, hysterically, because Merlin might have just declared war upon the rest of the five kingdoms. “In the name of all that is holy! Is that what you call it?”

“But I had to get out quickly because when Morgana saw me she attacked me with her magic - honestly, when did she get so strong? And now we need to get back there, because I’m worried she might work out how to get it out of the stone—the sword, I mean—not that I really think she would, I mean, destiny is a fickle mistre—”

“Merlin,” says Arthur, gravely.

“Sire?” An expectant eyebrow rises. 

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up, sire.” Merlin smiles. His eyes flick up and down Arthur’s face as if searching for answers there. They drift towards Arthur’s bare neck and chest, and then back up again. His tongue comes out to moisten his lips, which he then bites, and then he looks up slyly at Arthur through his lashes, and tilts his head. “But, first, you might want to… you know, put a shirt on?”

Arthur puts one finger to Merlin’s lip, so that Merlin’s eyes cross as they follow the movement.

“Shhh.”

******

It is warm, too warm, and light seeps in through the canvas of Arthur’s tent. In all these five years, with all that has passed, Merlin has stayed by his side.

Arthur takes a moment to gaze down, half smiling, upon Merlin’s face as he dreams. Flecks of grey now pepper the familiar wild spray of black hair. His long, skilful fingers twitch upon the pillow as he dreams. Their tent is hardly luxurious, but that doesn’t matter. They are so close now, to uniting the kingdom against the invaders. Here at Badon, with his sword in his hand and his beloved by his side, he will ride to a famous victory. Camelot’s golden age is upon them.

“Let’s be having you, lazy daisy.” He pokes Merlin in the side.

Merlin’s eyes fly open and he glowers in mock anger. “That’s my line, prat.”

With a chuckle, Arthur lets his eyes linger on the tense line of Merlin’s jaw, the pale curves of his neck. Dipping down, with appreciation, to the lean swell of Merlin’s chest. Breath hitching, he traces the dark line of hairs that lead down Merlin’s gut.

“Liking what you see?” murmurs Merlin. Smiling lazily under Arthur’s scrutiny, Merlin blinks back at him through heavy fan of lashes.

Arthur reaches out with his hand, ready to twitch away the covers, but there’s a discreet cough outside. Hastily, he restores the bedclothes.

Not a moment too soon.

“Sire!” Leon’s head pokes through the tent opening. “First light is on us.”

“I’ll be with you directly, Sir Leon.” Sighing regretfully, Arthur rolls out of the warm comfort of their shared cot.

“Bloody battles.” Merlin falls out of the cot and rummages in the trunk for his discarded clothes. “Why do they always have to take place at daybreak? Why can’t we have a battle in the mid afternoon, for once? Or at least wait until after breakfast? You kings and what-not, do you have no thought for the hapless soldiers and… and… sorcerers who serve you? Hmm?”

“Shut up, Merlin.” As he pulls on his quilted chausses, Arthur chuckles at Merlin’s grumbling. “You whine more than my hunting dogs.”

“Huh, at least they get fed!” Merlin strides over to help Arthur with his gambeson. “Sometimes I think you love them more than me.”

“Of course I do. They’re loyal, faithful…”

“I’m loyal and faithful!” protests Merlin.

“They’re not at all sneaky…”

“You love my sneakiness.” Merlin pulls the straps a little tighter, his fingers skilled from long years of practice. “You said so last night, when I got you out of that council meeting. And then there’s what we did next….”

“Hmm, good point.” Arthur laughs, remembering. “Merlin one, dogs nil.”

It has always been like this, before a battle. Their easy banter disguises their anxiety and apprehension. It has been so, even before the fateful day when he raised the sword of succession and defeated Morgana’s immortal army. Exchanging a laden glance with Merlin, Arthur welcomes the sudden gratitude that spreads warmly through his veins . He reaches out to grasp Merlin on the arm.

“Thank you, dear friend,” he says in a grave voice. “For these years of friendship and companionship.”

“And mind-blowing sex,” Merlin reminds him.

Arthur smiles. “That too.”

“Come on then, dollophead.” Merlin stoops and hands Arthur his helmet, which Arthur tucks under one arm. “Let’s face our enemy.”

Arthur nods. “It is time.” He holds out a hand.

Merlin smiles

Together, they step out into the blazing light.

 

******

END

******

 


End file.
